


use me for what i'm good for

by crooked



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Modern Era, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crooked/pseuds/crooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire needs something Enjolras can't give and wants something from Combeferre that he doesn't think he deserves. Still, he manages to get something from them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	use me for what i'm good for

**Author's Note:**

> for [my jess](http://hipstaire.tumblr.com) because when she asks me to do the thing, i always do the thing ♥

The silence hangs heavy in the air as they dress, backs to one another, the expanse of rumpled sheets seeming as wide as the sea. Grantaire pulls his shirt over his head, his shoulder protesting at the movement and he remembers why. Enjolras bit him there, _hard_ , as he fucked him over the footboard. His body is littered with marks, some that will fade by the time he leaves and others that will linger for days, and Enjolras is much the same. This isn’t a sweet, lazy, tender thing between them, no. It’s rough and almost angry; it’s teeth against skin and fingers gripping with no trace of gentleness, only possession; it’s raw and animalistic. It’s a release of frustrations and anger and whatever other emotions have been building inside them until they have to explode in some way. And what better way than _this_?

They have a routine, of a sort. Grantaire comes to Enjolras’ (always his place) and from the beginning, there are very few words. He’s pulled in, pushed back against the closed door, and it’s on from there. Bitten lips and pulled hair, arms yanked above head and pinned roughly to the wall, roaming hands that dig into pliant flesh. They end up tumbling to the floor, the couch, Enjolras’ bed, laying over the kitchen table and one of them gets pushed down, on his belly or back, and gets fucked until they’re both sweaty and breathless and aching in muscles they forgot they had. Then they dress and Enjolras lays back against the sheets still warm from their bodies, and maybe they’ll exchange a comment or two — _you going to bahorel’s tonight?_ ‘maybe. you?’ _probably, yeah._ ‘see you there if you show up.’ _yeah._ — and then Grantaire leaves.

He used to go home, alone and feeling oddly hollow, and he’d finish the previous night’s bottle of wine before opening up another. He would shower, sometimes not, and he’d stand before the mirror hung behind his door, naked and examining his body. He’d run his fingers over the places where Enjolras left his traces, press the bruises until they hurt, maybe bring himself off at the memory of being used and claimed by the beautiful man, shame shading his cheeks a soft pink. He’d crawl into bed after and sleep would come swift to his tired, aching limbs.

But once, after leaving Enjolras, Grantaire returned to his apartment to find he’d exhausted his supply of wine. He can’t remember the chain of events that led him there, but he somehow ended up knocking on Combeferre’s door.

He’s gone there ever since.

Combeferre doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t ask _who, grantaire?_ and he doesn’t judge. Grantaire wonders how he’d react if he knew it was Enjolras’ scent still on his skin, in his hair. That his fingers tenderly trace marks that Enjolras left, that Enjolras is just as marked and they both like it that way. Grantaire doesn’t find out because Combeferre won’t ask and he won’t volunteer anything.

It’s better if he doesn’t know. Because maybe knowing would mean he’d stop caring, stop the soft touches he gives to counter the rough ones. Knowing might mean an end to the arms that wind around him in greeting, right there in the frame of the open door. An end to the sympathetic eyes and the gentle kisses, never over skin that has been bruised. Grantaire doesn’t want that to stop. He doesn’t want to lose this, this contrast to what he has with Enjolras. He _needs_ it. He needs Combeferre’s patience and understanding. He needs to be laid down on Combeferre’s bed and kissed and touched with nothing in mind but his pleasure. He needs to hear Combeferre’s soft words, hear and feel them as they’re whispered into his skin, telling him that he’s beautiful - even if Grantaire can’t quite bring himself to believe them. That Combeferre believes them enough to make him want to believe is enough.

He needs this release of an entirely different kind, a release of the tension that laces his muscles when he leaves Enjolras’ place, a release of the heaviness in his heart and the feeling of wrongness clinging to him. Grantaire needs Combeferre to fuck him as though he’s trying to convince him that he’s worthy of more than someone who seems to treat him like he’s disposable. Grantaire needs to feel loved.

Does he think Combeferre loves him? No, and he wouldn’t think he quite deserved it if he did. Does Grantaire love him? Sometimes he wishes he could. But he is doomed to love one man, and that man will only ever love a concept. So he sees no harm in keeping it up, in fulfilling one need with Enjolras and a vastly different one with Combeferre. Everyone is consenting and nobody is getting hurt.

Except him, occasionally, but that’s the least of his concerns.


End file.
